Sharking and Other Stories
A Collection of Short Stories by
by Edward P. Norvell
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Edward P. Norvell
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This novel is a fiction. Any reference to historical events; real people, living or dead or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Sharking
The wet sand filtered through Scott's fingers, hardening into the intricate spire of a sand castle, as the sun penetrated his tanned back, soothing and relaxing him. Scott sat with his legs folded under him, as he sculpted the spires and walls of the sand castle. The sound of the waves drowned out all other sound. He could feel the breeze blowing steadily from the ocean. At fifteen Scott was physically at an awkward stage of adolescence: not quite a teenager, but too big to be a boy.
"Scott," he heard someone call from over a sand dune.
He looked up and saw his father, standing beside sea oats bent by the wind, wearing a beaked baseball hat with the name "Atlantis", printed over an anchor. Scott could feel his father's dark eyes focus on him, and heard disapproval in his voice, but he continued to build the sand castle without looking up. His father walked quickly over the soft sand of the dune, onto the beach.
"Answer me when I call you," his father said, yanking Scott up by the arm. "I thought I told you not to play in the sand anymore like a kid." His father kicked the sand castle and stepped on it, leaving a large print in the mound of wet sand. "You're almost fifteen years old. You're too old to be sitting in the water, making mud pies." Scott wiggled loose from his father and ran like lightning down the beach.
"Come back here, damnit. Don't run away from me when I talk to you." His father ran after him, but the boy was too fast for him. Mr. Reynolds was tired, having been awake since five in the morning, after taking a party of drunken businessmen deep-sea fishing.
Scott sat on top of a sand dune watching the white-capped waves roll in. By concentrating on the monotone of the waves, and the sound of the wind, Scott could forget the hurt and turmoil, which raged inside him. Every once in a while it welled up like a storm at sea. What was wrong with building sand castles? His mother didn't mind. Why did his father make such a big deal out of it? What was wrong with his father? All of a sudden it seemed he was turning on Scott and Scott didn't know why. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought them back, armed with one clear thought.
He repeated it over and over in his mind until he began to mouth the words "I hate my father, I hate my father, I hate my father."
Scott opened the back door of the house trying to slip into his room without his parents hearing him. It was dark outside. After he left the beach he went to play video games on the fishing pier with Ricky Holmes and a few of his friends. Scott ate dinner with Ricky and his family.
"Scott, is that you?" his mother called out.
"Where have you been?" his mother asked, getting up from the sofa facing the television, where she sat knitting a gray sweater. Mr. Reynolds did not take his eyes off of the television set.
"I ate at Ricky's," Scott said, leaning against the hall door, which led into the living room. The house was paneled in knotty pine, which gave it a warm yellow glow at night.
"Why didn't you call us?"
"I forgot."
Mr. Reynolds turned his head to his wife without looking at Scott. "I made him mad this afternoon. I caught him playing in the sand again and he ran off."
"Bill," Mrs. Reynolds looked at her husband, sharply.
"He's still a boy."
"A boy, hell, Rebecca, he's almost sixteen years old."
"He'll be grown soon enough. Don't be so hard on him."
She put her hand on her husband's shoulder.
"Frank Field's son is Scott's age and he's helping his Dad on the boat," he said.
"I told you, I don't want him to work on the boat until he is old enough," Mrs. Reynolds stiffened.
"Do you know how much I pay those high school kids to work for me?"
"I don't care how much you pay them. I've heard all this before."
"Is your son too damn good to work on a fishing boat with his father?"
"I didn't say that."
"Afraid he'll cut himself on a fish hook or get bit by a shark?"
"I didn't say that either."
"John was too good for it. He went to college, wouldn't work with his father like the other boys. Now look where he is, in Atlanta, working some computer job. We don't see him more than twice a year. He's too good for both of us. Is that what you want for Scott?"
"I'm proud of John and so are you, to hear you brag about him to your buddies. He comes to visit us when he can.
He's very busy, and, yes, if Scott wants to go to college, I want him to go. He has talent with drawing and design. Who knows, he may become an architect or an engineer."
"Too damn good to work with their father, both of them. You pamper them, play up to them, and try to set them against me.
They don't do what I say. They say, 'But Momma told me not to do that'."
"That's not true and you know it."
Scott ran to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He heard his parents argue in the living room for another half-hour, then his Dad stomped down the hall and slammed the back door. Mr. Reynolds got into his car, backed up, spraying gravel as he did, then sped off down the drive out to the highway. Scott heard his door open; it was his mother. She knelt beside his bed.
"Don't be mad at your father. He's under a lot of pressure. He's not making the money he needs to keep everything going. It seems that each year it becomes harder to catch the fish he needs to satisfy his customers, and it becomes more and more expensive.
He's not mad at you and me. He's mad at himself and doesn't know what to do." Scott reached up and hugged his mother.
The next morning at breakfast they ate in silence. Mr. Reynolds looked tired and hung over.
"Well, it certainly is a nice day today, isn't it?" Mrs. Reynolds said smiling. Scott looked out the sliding glass doors, through the pine trees in front, over the Intra-Coastal waterway, and past the silvery marshes to the cottages on Holden Beach a couple miles away. It was a beautiful day. The wind played with the glistening saw grass in the marshes as it does with the water: making dimples here and there, laying them flat in one direction, then rippling them just beyond. Several sailboats made their way down the waterway. He could see their tall masts through the trees, sails flapping uselessly while they were being powered by small motors on the waterway. Occasionally a barge would float by noiselessly, carrying mounds of black coal, or loads of freshly cut trees to be sent to a pulp mill in South Carolina.
"What do you have planned for today Scott?" Mrs. Reynolds asked.
"Me and Ricky are going to take the dinghy out and go shrimping, then dig some clams."
Mr. Reynolds slid his chair out and stood up.
"Where are you going?" Mrs. Reynolds asked, her tone changing from pleasantness to anxiety.
"To the dock, to work on the boat. The starboard engine is giving me some trouble and I have a party of four who are going to the Gulf Stream with me tomorrow to go bill fishing."
"Fishing for marlin?" Scott asked, excited.
"Yeah, do you want to go?"
"He's not going to the Gulf Stream with you on business until he is fifteen years old. You promised me that." Mrs. Reynolds said, glaring at her husband.
"I hear you, just thought I'd ask." He replied with a smirk on his face.
Scott was thrilled when he heard his Dad say marlin fishing. Usually his father fished for blues, Spanish or king mackerel. But only at certain times of the year did he go to the Gulf Stream, fifty miles off shore, to fish for marlin. The best marlin fishing was off Cape Hatteras, just to the north, but every once in a while marlin were caught off Cape Fear.
Scott liked to work on his father's boat, but he knew his mother didn't want him to. She didn't mind him helping to clean up and prepare bait and tackle while it was at the marina. But as for going with his father on a business trip, she said no. He couldn't wait until he turned fifteen.
Scott and Ricky put their pails and nets in the wooden boat and filled the tank with enough gasoline to last them for the day. After Scott got out into the inland waterway,
Ricky gradually fed the shrimp net into the water. The floats spread out behind the small boat that Scott had helped his brother build. After a while Scott slowed down, and with his foot on the steering rod of the out-board motor, they both began to pull the net in; slowly at first, faster as it got closer to the boat, so the shrimp couldn't escape. When the net was in the boat, Scott and Ricky picked out the little flounder, seaweed, and fish, and threw them back into the water. Then they started to gather the shrimp, which were slippery and jumped like grasshoppers when touched. The boys giggled and laughed as they chased the shrimp around the bottom of the boat, picked them up and dropped them into a pail half full of water. A few of the small shrimp managed to escape, hiding under the exposed timbers at the bottom of the boat.
After several more passes with the net, they had a pail full of very active shrimp. When they finished Scott pulled the boat up on a bank of black mud on the marsh side of the inland waterway. They wore tennis shoes to protect their feet from oyster shells, which were everywhere and colorful nylon bathing suits - Scott's was red and Ricky's was lime green - and they wore white tee shirts with pockets.
They tied the boat to a large piece of driftwood, and then trudged through the black mud, along the bank of a creek, which led into the tall shimmering grass of the marshes. The tide was going out; at high tide the mud would be under water. They passed several beds of oysters. The oysters were out of season, thus off-limits during the summer. One of their friends, David Belk, was fined $100.00 for harvesting oysters off-season and the warden threatened to confiscate his boat. The oysters were plentiful and delicious. Once the cool weather returned, they knew they could look forward to eating oysters with the fish, shrimp, and clams they harvested.
The black mud got deeper and deeper until it came up to their calves. It was quite an effort to walk in some places, but then suddenly the ground would harden and they could walk on the surface. They both got very muddy in the process until they found the spot they were looking for.
"My brother, Ralph, said its good clamming here," Ricky said. Ricky had bright blond hair, blue eyes and freckles.
He was Scott's best friend, he knew all the best places to catch fish, dig clams, and harvest oysters. Ricky also told Scott about what you're supposed to do with girls, and he knew all the good cuss words.
The boys waded out into the creek, floating their white plastic pails in front of them. Then they sat down in the water and thrust their hands into the black ooze, working their way through the mud until they found a clam. Scott remembered the first time he did this with his brother, John. He was scared something would grab his hand in the oozy black mud, he'd cut a finger on an oyster shell, or grab a bone from the skeleton of a dead pirate. By now he was used to it and enjoyed working his fingers through the mud.
They filled their pails with clams, and then decided to wash off and swim a little.
On a sandy bank nearby, they took off their clothes, and ran splashing into the water. After swimming, they both lay down on the bank with their hands behind their heads looking up at the sky naked.
"Have you ever screwed a girl Ricky?" Scott asked.
“Nope. Almost did. My brother Sammy, had a girlfriend over once and she brought her little sister along for me. We were supposed to do it, but it didn't work out."
"What happened?"
"I got her naked in bed and started to play with her titties, but when I asked her if she wanted to screw, she started crying and said she wanted to go home. I couldn't make her stay, so she left."
"I wonder what it's like?"
"They say its sort of like beating off, except ten times better," Ricky said.
Scott closed his eyes and imagined a girl with long blonde hair and big breasts lean over him, squeeze her breasts against him, and then kiss him. Scott began to get an erection. Embarrassed, he jumped up and ran, splashing into the water.
Ricky lay on the sand propped up on one elbow, laughing.
Scott started to laugh too and splashed Ricky. Ricky jumped on Scott's back, trying to dunk him. They wrestled around in the water and the mud, splashing, dunking, and laughing until, exhausted, they stopped, washed the mud off, and put their clothes back on.
"The tide is going out, we'd better get back to the dinghy before its completely out of the water," Scott said.
They ran down the creek bank and trudged through the mud, until they found the dinghy with only a few inches of water under its backside. They pushed and pulled, straining to get it off the bank. Finally they got it back into the water. The water flowed rapidly now, with the changing tide.
Then they made their way home.
Scott walked into the house to find his parents arguing.
"Just this once, Rebecca. Eric can't work tomorrow, and I need him. I have four businessmen coming from Charlotte tomorrow, paying me $750.00 to take them to the Gulf Stream.
I can't find anyone else at the dock with this short notice.
The boy is going to be sixteen in a few months. My boat pays the bills around here. It belongs to you as much as to me."
"I'm afraid." Mrs. Reynolds said. "I don't want him to get hurt."
"You don't want him to grow up," Mr. Reynolds said.
Tears came to her eyes. He put his arm around her neck.
"You are going to have to let go. He’s not going to be your baby forever."
Scott heard this before his parents knew he was there, and then a floorboard creaked under his foot. His parents turned around.
"Scott," his father said.
"Don't," said his mother, touching his father's arm.
"Let him decide." He said turning to Scott. "Scott, Eric got sick. I need a mate on the boat tomorrow, can you help me?"
Scott looked at his mother; she looked down at the floor. "Sure, Dad," he said.
"Okay, you know the time; up at five, at the dock by quarter til six. You'll need to get to bed early to get plenty of sleep. Do you want to go down to the dock with me? Now so we can start rigging the lines?"
"Yeah," Scott said. He looked at his mother. There were tears in her eyes, but she said nothing.
Scott carried several bags of ice to the boat to fill the fish coolers, and ice down the beer and sodas for the men. The sky was pink and peach where it met the tree line just above the marshes at the horizon. The air felt cool and fresh. Occasionally the early morning silence was broken by the sound of a gull, an egret, or a crane. Scott loved this time of day. There was an excitement about it, knowing that the entire day lay ahead. Gradually the silence would fill with the noise of people, boats, and cars; and the cool, moist air would turn hot and thick. It was as if the whole world was shaking off sleep to begin another day, full of surprise and mystery.
Scott did not like many of his father's customers. His father loved his work, but even his patience was strained by some of them. Mrs. Reynolds made a point to have as little contact as possible with her husband's clients and preferred to keep Scott away from them too.
When men came to the beach on a fishing trip, they left their wives and most of their inhibitions behind them. They tried to outdo each other with the amount of liquor and beer they drank, the amount of cussing they did, and the wild tales they told. Mrs. Reynolds didn't want Scott to be exposed to this. Scott didn't mind the cussing, and wild talk, but he didn't like the drinking and what it did to men. Of course, there were many groups that Mr. Reynolds took out who were well behaved, appreciative, and cordial. Scott could tell the group they planned to entertain today was going to be difficult.
They got out of their cars holding canned Budweisers and talking loudly.
"Billy Boy, how are you doing?" Jack Newman, a fat balding man, wearing khaki shorts and an orange and red flowered shirt said, as he walked up to Mr. Reynolds and slapped him on the back. Mr. Reynolds leaned over one of the coolers, helping Scott fill it with ice. Before Mr. Reynolds could answer, Mr. Newman continued, turning to his four companions.
"I'd like for you all to meet Billy Reynolds, the best damn charter captain in Southport, or North Carolina, for that matter. The only man I know who guarantees you'll catch fish, and doesn't go in until the coolers are full." He slapped Mr. Reynolds on the back again. Mr. Reynolds stood up, facing the men with a big smile on his face.
“Billy, meet John Taylor, Jim Corriher, and Ed Lipe. These gentlemen are from Charlotte and work for Cone Mills. They're trying to decide whether they should buy from Fluvanna Chemicals. It's our job to convince them that they need to, right?"
Mr. Newman slapped Mr. Reynolds on the back again and started to laugh - his customers laughed with him, and so did Mr. Reynolds.
“If you boys haven't been entertained by Jack Newman before, you had better hold on to the seat of your pants, because you're in for the time of your life," Mr. Reynolds said. "I suppose I've taken Jack out a dozen times, and he is without a doubt the hell-raisenest guy I've ever known. One thing is for sure, his customers are always satisfied."
"Why do you think we're down here?" Mr. Taylor, a tall thin man wearing dark glasses, said. "But we don't want him too confident about our business." He winked at Mr. Reynolds. "We want him to work for it."
The other men smiled.
"Always giving Jack a hard time, you all never give me a break. It gets harder to make an honest dollar every day, isn't that right Billy Boy?" Mr. Newman said, looking at Mr. Reynolds. "Who's this young fella?" Mr. Newman asked, putting his big hand on Scott's shoulder and squeezing it hard.
"This is my boy, Scott."
“He's a fine looking young man," Mr. Newman said, squeezing Scott's shoulder until it hurt. "You gonna grow up to be like your Daddy, and skipper a boat?" Mr.
Newman asked Scott.
"He sure will," Mr. Reynolds answered, before his son had a chance to respond.
Mr. Newman squeezed Scott's shoulder again. "You'll be a chip off the old block."
"That's right," Mr. Reynolds said, smiling at Scott.
Scott saw in his father's look, a sternness that told him not to disagree with his father in front of his customers. Scott respected that and shook his head in agreement with Mr.
Newman, even though he knew he was far from deciding whether to skipper a boat like his father. As soon as he shook his head, smiled, and played the part, Mr. Newman released his grip on his shoulder.
As the men boarded the boat, Scott and Mr. Reynolds finished icing down the beer and soft drinks. Then Mr. Reynolds started the engines and began to steer his way through the Cape Fear River towards the Atlantic Ocean.
A forty-foot, white, fiberglass Silverton, the boat had a bridge, a head, a small kitchen, a V-berth in the bow, and a sofa that slept two. It was fully equipped with radio, radar, antennas, and outriggers, which were used to keep the lines from tangling. It was named the "Atlantis".
It took four hours to get to the Gulf Stream. Once there, they fished for marlin for a couple hours without success. Finally Mr. Reynolds asked Scott to put out spoons so they could catch Spanish mackerel. He had seen several mackerel chasing schools of baitfish and thought if he couldn't get the large game fish he may as well fill the ice chest with mackerel.
Mr. Lipe and Mr. Corriher slept in the V-berth in the front of the boat, sleepy and slightly sick from drinking too much beer, and tired of fishing unsuccessfully. Soon after
Scott put the spoons out, Mr. Newman woke them to take the rods; there were fish on all of them. Mr. Reynolds circled around, crossing back and forth over the area where they were catching fish. As soon as one was taken off the line, and the line was thrown back into the water, they pulled in another.
Scott stayed busy taking fish off the lines, untangling one man's line, and throwing another man's line back into the water.
"I got one," Mr. Corriher yelled. Scott told him to pull up on the rod, hook it and reel it in. When it came to the side of the boat, Scott netted it and brought it into the boat.
They lost a few fish because the men didn't properly hook them. Sometimes when they brought them to the side of the boat, they would let the line drag in the water, instead of pulling it up as high as they could, so the fish got away.
Before long, they caught their limit of sixty Spanish mackerel, filling the ice chests.
Scott was exhausted and splattered with blood from the fish. His hands stung from working the lines, and re-hooking spoons on lines, which had to be cut because they become tangled. Delighted with their catch, the men started to drink again. They forgot about being sleepy and sick, as the excitement of catching so many fish brought them back to life.
"Had enough?" Mr. Reynolds called down from the bridge.
"Yeah," Mr. Corriher said, opening a can of beer.
Scott was exhausted. He knew there were enough fish in the ice chests to feed all of them for the rest of the summer. He stretched out on one of the fishing chairs and closed his eyes, letting the sun soak into his skin, feeling the breeze dance in little eddies on his bare chest.
Mr. Newman climbed onto the bridge and sat beside Mr. Reynolds. "Bill this has been great. It couldn't have been better if we had caught a white marlin, but I was wondering, since we caught so many fish, could we go sharking like we did when those guys from Cannon came with me about two years ago."
Mr. Reynolds hesitated. He didn't mind fishing for sharks, when he was with Eric, but he was afraid Scott wasn't experienced enough, and he would never forgive himself if Scott got hurt. Though the sharks were small, usually six to seven feet long, he had seen one bite a chunk out of a thick wooden chair one time.
"Scott's new at this and his mother worries about him."
"Sure Bill, I understand. The only reason I suggested it was that it would give the boys a thrill."
"That's okay, I can do it, but I think I'll let Scott take the bridge and I'll handle the lines, myself."
Scott had heard his father talk about sharking, but had never been with him when he did it. He was proud of the way he had handled the Spanish mackerel with speed and precision and a minimum of losses, but he was glad when his father said he would take over below and let Scott pilot the boat. The only time he was unsure of himself was navigating the inlet leading into the Cape Fear and docking the boat, usually his father did both of those things, but out in the open sea, Scott was perfectly confident of taking the helm.
Mr. Reynolds picked several mackerel out of the ice chest, gutted them, and filled a bucket with their bloody insides. Then he hid several large hooks in the fish, using the entire fish for bait. The fish were between twenty and twenty-four inches long.
"Go to the artificial reef, south 180 degrees," Mr. Reynolds told his son. Scott used the compass to direct the boat due south, 180 degrees. He knew the favorite fishing places; the ninety-foot hole; the artificial reef, made of junked automobiles and a liberty boats sunk after World War II; and an area just north of the shoals leading into the mouth of the Cape Fear. After forty-five minutes at twenty knots, they came to a buoy that marked the artificial reef.
"This is it, slow down and circle the area, keeping in sight of the buoy," Mr. Reynolds told Scott.
"Okay," Scott said. It felt good to be under the canvass top, out of the sun. He loved the sun, but after six hours in it, it felt good to be in the shade. He pulled his white tee shirt on. He also wore a red nylon bathing suit.
Mr. Reynolds threw the fish guts into the water, chumming it with the blood and guts to attract the sharks then he cast the lines, two at a time, not four, like when they caught the mackerel. Mr. Taylor took one of the lines and Mr. Corriher took the other.
"Like I told Jack on the bridge, sharking is serious business fellas. When I say jump, jump okay? They are sand sharks, but they can bite your arm or leg off."
The men nodded in agreement, looking a bit frightened at the prospect. "What do we do if we catch one?" Mr. Taylor, asked.
"We bring it into the boat and let it thrash around until it dies. It doesn't take long for a shark to die out of the water, maybe five minutes. But until then they fight like hell. So watch out."
"Don't worry, we will," Mr. Corriher said. Soon sharks began to appear in the sapphire blue water, attracted to the fish guts. One of the lines began to spin.
"I got one," Mr. Taylor said, after a while. The line began to spin as the shark swam with the bait, far from the boat.
"Let it go until it wears itself out and the boat drags it a little, then start reeling in," Mr. Reynolds said.
Then Mr. Corriher’s line was hit. It looked like the reel, wedged in a cup in the front of the wooden chair, would jump out of the boat and be carried away by the shark, but it wasn't, it held. Gradually Mr. Corriher and Mr. Taylor began to reel in their catches.
It was tough going, as soon as they reeled in a little, the line would start to spin and the shark would swim away.
"Let me bring in Mr. Taylor's first," Mr. Reynolds said. "Jim, take it easy, don't lose him, but don't be in a hurry to bring him in either. The boat should drag him for a while and wear him out."
Scott continued to steer the boat in a wide circle at a low speed. He never brought it to a complete halt.
"This thing is wearing me out," Mr. Taylor said, looking at Mr. Reynolds.
"Somebody else take it for a while," Mr. Reynolds said.
Mr. Lipe, sat down and began to reel in. Soon beads of sweat covered his forehead, and his arms strained as he tried to reel in the shark. As with Mr. Taylor, as soon as he reeled in a bit, the line would spin and take off, the shark carrying it further away from the boat.
"I don't seem to be making any progress," he said.
"The line is set so the shark can take it out after you reel in. If it locked the shark would break the line. It will wear down, just stay with it." Mr. Reynolds said.
Soon Mr. Lipe gave it to Mr. Newman, who after a while gave it back to Mr. Taylor.
"Looks like the shark's wearing us out, not the other way around," Mr. Taylor said to Mr. Reynolds. Mr. Corriher, who was a more experienced fisherman than the others, kept his line taught, but was in no rush to bring his shark in. They were going to bring in Mr. Taylor's first.
After a long struggle, the men finally brought a fighting mad, six-foot long shark to the side of the boat. Mr. Reynolds deftly gaffed it and lifted it into the boat with the help of Mr. Newman. The fish thrashed around wildly on the deck of the boat. The men jumped up onto the ladder going to the bridge, and back into the cabin. Mr. Corriher jumped out of his seat, abandoning his line. Mr. Reynolds stabbed the shark a few times with the gaff; an ominous looking pole with a steel hook at the end of it; and stepped on the shark's head, trying to control its movements.
"It won't be long now. They don't live long out of the water." Soon after baring its teeth and staring at the men with its bone chilling eyes, the shark stopped moving and Mr. Reynolds hauled it to the side of the boat where he tied it securely. They then began to work on pulling in the other shark.
During the excitement Scott noticed a bank of clouds on the horizon. By the time his father was free and he could call him to the bridge, the clouds became black, ominous, and filled the southern sky. Scott was aware of how fast a storm can come up at sea. He had been out with his father many times when a storm had overtaken them, transforming a calm sea and sunny day into a nightmare of fifteen to twenty foot waves, blowing rain, and lightning. He was afraid the storm was headed their way, and they were still about an hour from the mouth of the Cape Fear.
Joining Scott on the bridge, his father was worried too.
"The wind is blowing this way," Mr. Reynolds said.
"We'll bring the other shark in and call it a day. Start heading up the coast toward home, and as soon as we get the shark settled down, give it full throttle and head in."
"Okay, Dad," Scott was the happiest he had ever been with his father. He had never been fishing with customers before, and now he was not only helping on a commercial trip, but his Dad also trusted him to pilot the boat. His father talked to him about the storm just like he would with Eric.
Scott had helped with the lines and fished as good as any of his father's mates. The two of them were running the boat now. Scott could feel his father's trust and admiration.
"Look at that one would you," they heard Mr. Newman say below. "It must be eight feet long."
Mr. Reynolds looked behind the boat and saw Mr. Corriher was bringing in a large gray shark, which thrashed around violently like a bull in a ring.
"Hold on, I'm coming."
Mr. Corriher reeled the shark to the side of the boat where it slapped the water fiercely with its tail. Mr. Newman grabbed the end of the rod to steady it and Mr. Reynolds gaffed the fish, and then Mr. Newman and he both pulled it into the boat.
Just as it hit the deck, the boat lurched to one side, pushed by a wave, and the shark slid unexpectedly toward Mr. Reynolds. Before they knew what had happened, it clamped its jaws around Mr. Reynolds' leg. Blood was everywhere. Mr. Corriher began to scream as the shark slid across the deck away from Mr. Reynolds, who was doubled over in pain.
Scott saw what happened, and jumped from the bridge, leaving the boat without a pilot. The boat washed back and forth by the waves, but Scott and Mr. Newman managed to gaff the shark and keep it from careening across the deck anymore.
Once they got control of the shark, Mr. Taylor and Mr. Corriher pulled Mr. Reynolds, into the cabin. Scott found a fishing knife and stabbed the shark several times as Mr. Newman held his foot on its head and the gaff in its side.
Finally the shark stopped moving and they tied it to the side, so it wouldn't slide around anymore. They then ran to the cabin.
"Scott take control of the boat, it is going to be swamped by a wave if you're not careful," his father told him in extreme pain.
Scott looked at his father's leg, the flesh and muscle of the right calf below the knee was in shreds. They ripped his pants leg off and Mr. Reynolds told Mr. Newman how to make a pressure dressing by shredding the mattress ticking in the V-berth below and tightly wrapping the wound. They also wrapped him in blankets in case he went into shock.
"You better get us to Southport quickly boy," Mr. Newman said.
Scott took the wheel in the cabin and pushed the throttle all the way down, and then he radioed to Southport to make sure they would have an ambulance waiting. When he told the marine operator where they were, they told him a bad storm was headed their way.
"You had better go up to the bridge where you can see better son," Mr. Newman said. "You can't do anymore for your Dad. We'll take care of him down here."
His father was sweating and his head thrashed from side to side. He was loosing consciousness.
Scott left the cabin and climbed the ladder to the bridge. He had never taken the boat all the way in before.
He wasn't sure where the buoys were, and he had never docked it, but none of that mattered as he pushed the throttle wide open and followed the compass reading he had seen his father follow to the Cape Fear.
The storm soon overtook them. The waves got bigger and bigger and the rain came down in sheets. Normally he would stay put in a storm like this and circle until it passed, but he had to get to port as soon as possible, so he pushed on through the storm. The sea changed from a beguiling blue lake into a treacherous series of valleys, and peaks, ten and fifteen feet high, all surging at the boat, capped with white foam, any one of which could capsize them if it hit broadside.
Scott scaled the huge waves in the violent sea at forty-five degree angles, just like his father had taught him. Each wave took great effort and concentration, as he gingerly guided the boat up the wildly surging water, then tumbled down the other side with the white caps pushing from behind, threatening to wash into the boat if Scott didn't go fast enough to outrun them. As he conquered one, he saw that hundreds more lay ahead. An hour seemed like days. The rain blew in his face like sand from a blasting machine when he opened the plastic around the bridge so he could see.
Mr. Newman came up to say his father was unconscious, but seemed to be stabilized. Then he went back down.
About half way up the coast to the mouth of the river, Scott realized he had to urinate. He couldn't take his hands off the wheel. He couldn't go into the cabin to use the head, he couldn't even leave the wheel long enough to pee over the side of the boat, and there was no way to signal for Mr. Newman to relieve him. Even if there was, he didn't know if Mr. Newman could ford the waves. He tried to find a cup or a coke can to do it in, but there weren't any within reach. He finally let it go in his pants. He was secretly humiliated as he felt the warm liquid trickle down his legs, but he knew he had no choice. He was already soaking wet, so it didn't matter anyway, but he realized then that his life, the life of his father, and the lives of the men on board depended completely on his making it through the treacherous seas, to a safe arrival in Southport.
Heading into the mouth of the Cape Fear, with Bald Head Island on the right and Oak Island on the left, was the most dangerous part. The inlet was wide and normally no trouble at all, but the storm pushed the waves against them broadside as he headed in, threatening to capsize the boat, even the wide inlet didn't allow a lot of room to zig zag and avoid the broadsides of the waves.
Scott thought he would never make it in. He wanted to give up and run away from it, but he couldn't, their lives depended on his complete concentration, and determination.
Soon the buoys marking the channel appeared, as the channel narrowed, it became more difficult to avoid the broadsides. Several times he thought they were going to be swamped as the boat bobbed in the water like a cork, but when he made it past the Lighthouse on Oak Island, the water became calmer. No longer in the open sea, he knew Southport was at the other end of the inlet, if he could follow the buoys in, they would be safe.
At the marina he saw the rescue squad van with its red lights flashing. The dock was crowded with people who had heard about the accident. He could see his mother waving at him in front of the others. The wind was still blowing hard, and the rain made it difficult to see, but Scott made his way to the dock, reversing one engine, forwarding the other, as he had watched his father do, to turn the boat.
He guided the boat to the side of the dock then the wind blew him into it with a crash. The men on board and on the dock secured the boat quickly and two men stepped on board with a stretcher.
Mr. Reynolds regained consciousness on the dock as the rescue squad wrapped him with blankets and put him in the back of the van. Mrs. Reynolds got in and knelt beside her husband crying. Mr. Reynolds looked up, and asked, "Where's Scott."
Scott climbed into the van and put his arm around his mother.
"You saved my life," his father said looking at Scott.
"Don't talk. You need to save your energy," Mrs. Reynolds said.
Mr. Reynolds smiled then closed his eyes.
Expecting
"Do you want to go out tonight?" I asked Ann as she lay on the bed at my parent's beach house, wearing khaki shorts and a big plaid cotton blouse to cover her bulging stomach. We were alone at my parent’s cottage on the oceanfront at North Myrtle Beach in the middle of July. My parents were on a trip to Europe. The air conditioner in the window was on full blast, but Ann still sweated.
"No Tom," she answered. "I'm too tired. Go on if you want to, though. I'll stay here, and rest.”
Ann knew I would stay with her. How much fun would it be for me to go to a bar by myself, knowing that my pregnant wife was at home waiting for me? The guilt would be overwhelming.
We had our first anniversary in June, and she was expecting the baby the first of September. So much had happened the past year, getting married, going to law school. Only two years ago I was on vacation at the beach, single, with my buddies, marriage far from my mind. I didn’t know the beach any other way than being single.
Every summer since high school I had come to the beach with my family. For several summers my brother and I lived at the beach, working in seafood restaurants and various jobs. I loved to go to the bars and nightclubs to dance until two or three o'clock in the morning. I loved to walk on the beach and watch people; the young people out in the sun playing Frisbee, volleyball, surfing, and riding bicycles; the children playing in the tidal pools; and the older men and women casting their fishing rods in the ocean, or reading books under big beach umbrellas.
It became a ritual for my brother and I to walk to Fat Jack's, a bar with a deck over-looking the beach, for happy hour at four in the afternoon, have a few beers and watch the people.
When Ann and I walked on the beach together and stopped at Fat Jack's to have a beer, it was different. I watched the young people around us laughing, flirting, drinking, looking tan and fit, and I knew I couldn't be a part of it. Ann wore a maternity bathing suit with a long oversized tee shirt over it. She was embarrassed to walk on the beach pregnant because she thought she looked fat. We went out to a bar one night and she got sick from the cigarette smoke and said she didn't feel like dancing.
I love Ann. The doctors told us we would have trouble having a baby, then Ann got pregnant the first time we tried. I have always wanted to have children and I knew Ann would be a good mother. But it's hard sometimes. I've only been married for a year. Sometimes I miss the old carefree single life. Now I worry about finishing law school, and the expense of raising a child. Ann quit her job when she got pregnant. I worry about passing the bar exam, and finding a job after school.
Ann and I lay on the bed together; I flipped through the television channels, trying to find a good station, without luck.
"Do we have a TV guide?" I asked.
"No," Ann replied, "Do we need one?"
"Yes, I’ll get one, be right back.”
"Do you want me to go with you?" she asked.
"No, you stay here and rest." She looked hurt, she knew I restless.
"You don't have to stay and watch television with me if you don't want to, Tom," she said.
"I want to. I just want to see what's on television, that's all." She didn't look like she believed me. But she didn't stop me either.
I drove to a convenience store and bought a newspaper with a local television guide in it then drove down Ocean Boulevard. I used to love to drive down the Boulevard. Several young people walked along the road leading to the center of town where the bars, clubs, stores, and pavilion were located.
It was a busy weekend and all the rental houses and motels were full. Several houses were festooned with college fraternity banners, and groups of young people stood on porches drinking beer and dancing on the decks to the sound of loud beach music. Most of them wore bathing suits covered with tee shirts, though it was nighttime. I could remember the times I did the same thing at one house party after another.
It was a warm and lovely night with a full moon shining in a cloudless sky. The light from inside the houses was soft, warm, and yellow, reflecting the knotty pine interiors, beckoning me to enter. Several young people waved at me as I drove by in the white Mazda sports car I bought the year before I was married. I passed a few guys who were hitchhiking.
I used to hitchhike up and down the Boulevard so I could meet people and hope to be invited to house parties. There is such a festive atmosphere at the beach, where there are no strangers. Everyone vacations for a weekend or a week and is determined not to let anything get in the way of having a good time. I remembered the summer I worked as a busboy and waiter at the Cabana Terrace Restaurant. Another season I pushed an ice-cream cart on the strand, a perfect way to meet girls, but a lousy way to make money.
After driving the length of the Boulevard, turning around and driving back, I returned to the house and entered our room carrying the newspaper. Ann lay on the bed in the same position I left her, watching television. I lay down beside her and put my head on her chest.
"Do you still love me?" she asked.
"Of course I do.”
"Even if I'm fat and ugly, and can't go out to the bars to drink and dance with you?"
"You're not fat and ugly.”
"Yes I am," she replied, burying her face in her pillow.
"To me you are the most beautiful woman in the world," I said, reaching down to kiss her, and I meant it.
The Fire
I had just left the Ocrafolk festival and was heading home to pick up Helen, my wife to bring her to the festival. I knew she would like it with all the music, arts, crafts and food and people. It was a clear bright beautiful day in June on Ocracoke where we had just bought a second home. A stout breeze coming from the sound As I was driving home I noticed that I was low on gas so I stopped at the one gas station on the island, the Texaco station. As I was pumping gas into the four-wheel Dodge Durango that belonged to my wife, I smelled smoke. At first I didn’t think much of it, probably someone burning trash, but it persisted and got worse. I looked around to see if I saw any smoke, and far off toward the sound and coming from the neighborhood where we lived I saw a column of smoke. By the time I had finished pumping gas, the column of smoke had grown enormous and the odor of smoke was quite strong. I asked the station attendant if she knew what it was and she said she thought it might be a marsh fire. I got in the car and raced toward our house. The smoke got thicker and clouded the sky, when I got to the house it was obvious that the fire was very close to our house.
I found my wife outside in a panic.
“It’s the marsh, and the wind is blowing it this way. Our Judy next door told me to pack the animals grab any valuables and get out.”
“Well what are you waiting for?”
“I can’t believe it, we just bought the house and now this is happening. What are we going to do?”
“Well for one thing, lets get the animals and grab your jewelry and a few things and park the car out of harms way. Then we can ride our bikes back to see if we can help.
I ran into the house, the windows had been open, so the house was filled with smoke. We both located the three cats, the dog, and the rabbit, all of whom looked scared to death, and put them in the car. I then put our bikes in the back, grabbed my laptop and Helen’s jewelry and left. We parked the car on Highway 12 at a friends shop and left it in the shade under a tree. Then we got on our bicycles and rode back to the house.
“I can’t believe this happening.” Helen said, very upset. “I love our house, what if we lose it? What will we do?”
“Well for one thing we need to find the fire and see what we can do to help.” I said.
We left our bikes at the house and walked down the dirt road that went past our house toward the fire. At the fire site we found most of the people of Ocracoke working furiously to put out the fire and help the firefighters. There was a volunteer fire department on the island, but I recognized every bartender, waiter, ship captain, electrician, ships mate, and shop owner in town slogging through the muddy marsh in boots and carrying hoses to spray the fire. The wind picked up and was carrying sparks everywhere. The marsh was between a narrow paved road and the sound. On the other side of the road was a row of houses. Our house was a about a city block away. If the fire spread to the houses, it would be all over; half the island could be lost. The women and older people gathered water bottles to give to the hot thirsty young men who manned the hoses. A group of Hispanics drove up and quickly jumped into the fray. Ocracoke had a lot of Hispanic workers who cleaned houses and worked in the kitchens of its restaurants. I recognized several young men who I had seen at the Ocrafolk festival and around town that day, now shirtless, blackened by soot and smoke and wearing the ubiquitous black rubber boots. Several of the volunteer firemen wore heavy firefighting equipment. The word went out that if they couldn’t control it the National Park service was flying some airplanes that would scoop water out of the sound and dump it on the fire, but those planes were an hour away, we didn’t have that much time with the wind driving the fire and sparks as it did.
“Is there enough water? “ I asked one of our neighbors, a native Ocracoker.
“Yes, thank goodness there is a hydrant nearby or we would have to rely on the water truck. We have a new fire engine too, that is helping out a lot.”
Helen and I felt helpless as we watched those valiant young men and women fight the fire. All we could do was help out with water, and occasionally I would help move a hose, but basically all we could do was watch and pray that the fire could be contained.
Finally the firefighters seemed to get the upper hand. The wind died down a little and they got the flames under control.
“How did it start?” I asked my neighbor the native.
“Firecrackers, some kids were shooting off bottle rockets and they caught the marsh grass on fire. We haven’t had any rain in three months.” He was not happy about what those kids did, the next thing I could hear him say was they must have been tourists.
With time the fire fighters gained control of the fire and it didn’t cross the road or catch the houses on fire. People had their garden hoses out spraying their houses to keep the sparks from igniting the wood shingles, and it worked.
When it seemed that things were under control, we walked back to the house and picked up our bikes and got the car, the animals were hot inside, but not the worse for wear. We drove home, and let the animals in the house, Zeus, the gray cat was afraid to go outside after that. The experience upset him so.
The Stranger
Michael and Sally had known each other since high school and were both living at the beach. Michael worked at a restaurant, in the summer between his freshman and sophomore years of college. Sally worked at her grandparent’s boarding house at Crescent Beach. She did not go to college.
Sally was eighteen, with long jet-black hair, large breasts and a very good figure. Michael talked to her often about his college girlfriend. They didn't know many other people at the beach that summer, so they palled around together.
One day Michael was driving down Ocean Boulevard talking about his girlfriend, and Sally yelled out, "Stop, Michael, he's cute," pointing to a young man who was hitch hiking.
Michael stopped the car and gave the young man, about Sally's age, a ride. Michael was twenty. The young man, Gary Holtz, from Anderson, South Carolina, told them he had dropped out of school and moved to the beach to find a job. He was working at the Surf Shop, downtown. He didn't have a car so he had to hitch hike home from work.
Gary had been a track star in high school and had an athletic build. He had sandy blond hair and eyes that matched the sky. He had a carefree smile and an easy laugh. He was taller than Michael, about six feet, and had a good tan. Sally couldn't keep her eyes off of him. When he looked away and Sally caught Michael's eye, she rolled her eyes and made a kissing motion with her lips, while looking at Gary.
Gary confessed he had just quit his job at the surf shop, because he got into a fight with his boss about when he was to be paid. "I'm really short of cash," he said. "I've got to find another job soon."
"Oh we've got plenty of money," Sally interjected. "Don't we Michael?" Michael could have killed her. Here they had picked up a total stranger, who could be a mass murderer for all they knew, and she was telling him how much money they had. He glared at Sally and didn't reply.
"I didn't mean that the way it sounds," Sally said, seeing Michael's disapproval. "I mean, I have some money that I could lend you to get something to eat," she said looking rather silly.
Michael thought, not another one of Sally's pick-ups. He was used to Sally's seemingly insatiable appetite for men. She was a buddy of Michaels, which is the way he wanted to keep it, but let her loose in a room full of men, and within thirty minutes she would be trying to go to bed with one them.
Before he knew what had happened Sally had invited Gary to eat with them at her grandparents place.
They sat in the pine-paneled den eating spaghetti, which Sally had fixed, holding the plates as they sat on an sixties style sofa and watched television. They took Gary to his apartment where he changed as they waited. Sally strained to look into the bathroom as he changed his shirt and washed his face. Michael smiled as she stared at Gary's slender muscular body. After that they drove to Michael's house, where he changed, and then on to Sally's. Her grandparents were out of town, so they had the place to themselves.
Gary seemed to enjoy the company of Michael and Sally. They laughed, told jokes, and got along with each other very well. Michael and Sally told Gary about various high school antics and about their friends back home. Gary told some stories about himself and his friends. As the night went on, they felt more and more comfortable with each other.